A Good Place To Start
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Waterloo". Boyd knows what he wants, but when he finds out what Grace wants will there be any room for compromise? Complete. T for a bit of strong language. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

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**A Good Place To Start**

by Joodiff

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Time is running out and Boyd knows it. They've eaten lunch, they've strolled a little way along the Embankment together, and he's been an absolute model of restraint and patience as she's teased him mercilessly about choosing retirement over Hendon, but now they are rapidly approaching that awkwardly polite moment when they make vague promises to meet up for lunch again at some point – the sort of promises that never come to anything – and go their separate ways. He can see it all so clearly, and he knows without question that it's not what he wants. He doesn't want to become just another name on a Christmas card list, a former colleague who gradually but inevitably fades from mind.

"You're not listening to me at all, are you?" Grace complains.

He gives her a sideways look. "Broadmoor."

She sighs heavily, pointedly. "Keep up, Boyd. Broadmoor's out of the running. I was explaining that I've decided I really don't want to work fulltime anymore."

"Hang on, haven't you just spent the last two hours taking the piss out of me for retiring?"

"Ah, but _I'm_ not considering retirement."

Boyd snorts. "Semantics, Grace."

"Not at all."

He can't imagine the future without this. Can't imagine the future without _her_.

It doesn't matter how appallingly bad he is at this sort of thing, something needs to be done, and it needs to be done quickly, before it's too late. It's not courage that he lacks, after all. Boyd stops walking, waits for her to stop too. They naturally drift closer together as he turns to gaze at the river. The water's choppy and slate grey, and it looks brutally cold even though Easter's already well behind them.

Grace says quietly, "What is it you're not saying, Boyd? Do you think you've made a big mistake, is that it?"

She always has been far too perceptive. Still surveying the bleak stretch of water, he replies, "About retiring? No. Christ, I joined the Force when I was twenty-two, Grace. That's a hell of a lot of years' service. I think I'm entitled to jack it in now, don't you?"

"Then… what? Something's definitely got under your skin."

Not some_thing_, Boyd thinks. Some_one_. But faint heart never won fair maiden and all that sort of bollocks. It's not quite the right axiom, but he doesn't really care. He turns to face her, his posture intentionally nonchalant. "The last six weeks or so have just been… odd."

"Well, of course they have," Grace says, with a very characteristic eye roll. "For heaven's sake, Boyd, the CCU was your baby, and it was a huge part of your life for a very long time. It's going to take time to adjust."

"It's not just that."

"You're going to be fine," she says, unselfconsciously patting his arm. "There's so much out there for you. A whole world for you to explore. So many new horizons. I'm actually rather jealous."

He frowns, genuinely bemused. "Jealous? Why?"

Grace laughs softly, but shakes her head. "It doesn't matter. You've got plenty of good years left in you, Boyd. Enjoy them."

He studies her for a moment before bluntly asking, "Why are you talking as if we're never going to see each other again?"

For a moment Boyd isn't sure, but Grace seems a little embarrassed as she replies, "Well… that's just how this sort of thing always goes, isn't it? You both start out saying you're _definitely_ going to meet up for coffee every couple of weeks or so, and before you know it…"

He's never going to have a better opportunity. It's now or never. Boyd speaks carefully, trying his best to think the words through even as he utters them. "Yeah, but surely after all this time… What I'm trying to say is… Well, we're not just ex-colleagues, are we?"

Grace raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I mean, we're friends," Boyd pushes. "At least, I thought we were. I know we don't always see eye-to-eye – "

"Understatement."

" – but… Oh, help me out here, Grace; you know I'm crap at this sort of thing."

She gazes at him steadily. "What are you trying to say, Boyd? What are you really trying to say?"

Clumsy Boyd may be, but he's tenacious. Gruffly, he continues, "Look, I know I'm not the easiest guy in the world to like, but we get along, don't we? You and me?"

The look she gives him is searching and very shrewd. "I suppose we've learnt to, yes."

"So? Come on, you know what I'm talking about."

"No," she says. "No, I don't think I do, to be honest."

Exasperating woman. His patience is starting to ebb, and it's a struggle to keep the growing irritation out of his voice as he says, "I don't want us to just drift apart, okay? You've been a good friend to me over the years; a better damned friend than I've deserved, most of the time. We should make an effort. Make sure we keep in touch."

Grace is silent for far, far longer than Boyd is comfortable with. Her eyes – vividly blue in the thin afternoon sunlight – study him with unsettling intensity. He stares back at her, trying to gauge her mood, trying to guess what thoughts are going through the sharp mind behind the blue gaze. Eventually, she shakes her head again. Her voice is quiet, but the tone is steady and firm. "No."

The single unanticipated word hits him harder than Boyd would ever have believed possible. Hits him squarely like a violent physical blow to the pit of his stomach. He blinks, doesn't know what to say, what to think. Something starts rise in him, and for once it isn't fury. No, what rises in him is an unexpected but fiercely exquisite mixture of pain and regret. Stupidly, he says, "No?"

"No," she repeats, just as calmly but just as implacably. "I'm sorry, but no."

The word makes no sense to Boyd. He tries, but he simply can't comprehend the vast desolate concept it represents. All he really understands is the level of hurt it brings. He's well aware that they've had their differences over the years, that there have been times when they've fought like cat and dog, times when simply being in the same room together has required a Herculean effort on his part just to remain civil, but until now he's honestly believed that all those dark times were firmly in the past for both of them, that hatchets have been buried and fences mended. Lost for words, all he manages is, "Grace…"

Her reply is gently delivered. "I can't be your friend, Boyd. I really am sorry."

He picks up instantly on the one word he can exploit. "_Can't_, Grace – or _won't_?"

"Can't," she repeats. "While we were still working together every day it was different. Now…"

Boyd does not understand. He really doesn't understand. "I know things haven't always been easy, Grace, but… I thought… Well, I thought we'd found some common ground. Learnt to be a bit more… tolerant."

"Tolerant," she echoes, as if exploring the idea. She smiles slightly, gently. "Poor Peter – you really don't have a clue, do you?"

"Obviously not," he tells her brusquely. "Grace – "

"I'm sorry," she says again, and he can see from her expression that she means it. "I should be going. Take care of yourself, Boyd. Get out there and enjoy the world… and don't ever change, okay? Don't ever stop being you."

She looks as if she's about to cry, and that confuses him even more. As she starts to move, Boyd instinctively snags her wrist, his grip hard and tight enough to stop her yet deliberately not strong enough to hurt her. "I don't have a fucking clue what's happening here… What the hell have I done wrong this time?"

He's right, there are unshed tears glistening in her eyes, and somehow the sight hurts him a lot more than her quiet, determined rejection. Grace raises her arm a fraction, as if to attempt to shake him off, but when Boyd refuses to release his grip she simply lets her arm fall back limply to her side. Her sigh is so soft he barely hears it, but there's an incalculable amount of pain in the almost imperceptible sound. She says, "Please don't do this."

She's not the only one who's hurting. He's aware how harsh he sounds as he growls, "Don't do _what_? I thought we were friends – real friends, not just colleagues. Now you're telling me that after all these years you don't want to know?"

Something sparks in her eyes – a mix of pain and anger. The frustration's quite clear in her tone as she snaps, "I can't be your friend. I don't _want_ to be your friend. Let go of me, Boyd."

He doesn't. The anger inside him is gaining momentum, fuelled by real hurt. "Why _not_? Am I really that objectionable?"

Her first tears finally spill, tracing quickly down her cheeks, but bizarrely she smiles; a pained, flickering smile. "Far from it…"

Boyd feels raw, feels cast adrift, alone in a strange place where nothing makes any sense. "I don't understand."

"Let go," Grace orders, and when he reluctantly does so, she continues, "I don't want to be your friend, Boyd. I've never wanted to be just your _friend_."

Even Boyd can't fail to detect the heavy, meaningful stress she puts on the word. What he's less confident about is his ability to correctly interpret it. She can't possibly mean what he thinks she means… can she?

The tear-tracks are still wet, but she's smiling again. "Ah, the penny finally drops."

He just stares at her, his mind racing as thoughts are formed and immediately discarded.

His silence evidently means something to Grace, because she chuckles quietly – a sound that's far more rueful than amused – and says, "Well, that's a first. I don't think I've ever seen you rendered completely speechless before."

There are words that try to break from him, but Boyd stubbornly holds them back. He's damned if he's going to allow his own impulsive mouth to condemn him.

There's still a faint smile on her lips, but now her eyes look dull and weary. There's a lot of pain behind the determinedly upbeat tone as she says, "So now you know. I can't be your friend, Peter, it's just too painful. I used to be able to tell myself that it was just work that always got in the way, but now…" she breaks off, but quickly seems to rally. "You're an extraordinary man, Boyd. A good man. Don't ever let anyone tell you any different."

The tone of her voice helps Boyd shake off his immobility, his silence. He takes a quick step towards her, says, "Grace…"

She holds up a hand to stop him, and it works. "Let a foolish old woman keep hold of what's left of her pride, eh? Goodbye, Peter."

And she determinedly walks away, head up, back very straight.

This _cannot_ be happening. The whole thing's got to be some ridiculous, narcissistic nightmare. One from which he'd really like to wake up from very soon, thank you very much. Damned infuriating woman _cannot_ be walking away from him.

She is.

Boyd bolts after her with surprising alacrity for a man of his age. Doesn't think, just acts. He catches her easily, of course, falls into step with her as she gives him a single hard glance and tells him, "Don't."

His temper's rising, and he can't stop himself barking, "What the fuck did you expect me to do? Just politely wave goodbye?"

"It would've been kinder."

"For whom?"

Grace merely increases her pace slightly. "Go away, Boyd."

He shakes his head rebelliously. "No."

"Why do you always have to behave like a spoilt child when you don't get your own way?"

"Why do you always have to confuse the fuck out of me?"

"To be fair, it's not exactly difficult."

He glowers. "Yeah, I'm just a big dumb copper – sorry, _ex_-copper. I know. So why don't you spell out exactly what the hell's going on here? Preferably so even _I_ can understand it."

"Not even you're that dense, surely?"

"Apparently I am, because what I'm inferring can't possibly be what you mean."

Grace abruptly changes direction, as if to throw off his pursuit. "Go _away_."

It doesn't work; Boyd pivots, remains firmly at her shoulder. "No. Not until you explain yourself properly."

"You're the most infuriatingly stubborn man I've ever met, do you know that?"

"You may have mentioned it once or twice over the last ten years. Ten years, Grace. Ten bloody _years_, and you're happy to walk away just like that?"

"No, not _just like that_," she snaps at him, coming to an abrupt halt. She swings round to face him, and the dullness is gone from her eyes. Now, they burn with an anger that startles him. "You have _no_ idea, do you? No idea how much I'm hurting."

Boyd almost flinches. Almost, but not quite. "_Why_?"

"Why?" Grace demands incredulously, furiously. "Why do you think? Do you know how much it hurts to be in love with someone you know will never give you a second glance?"

And there it is, the bald truth exposed, bloodily edged with pain and rage. The truth angrily flung down like a gauntlet between them.

It seems he hasn't misinterpreted her earlier words. It seems his astonished deduction was absolutely the correct one. Boyd doesn't know how to deal with it. Any of it. He stares at her, trying to make sense of things that make no sense at all.

Grace makes a strangled noise, a sound halfway between a laugh and a sob of despair. "Only you, Boyd… Only you could be so utterly and completely oblivious."

She starts to walk again, every step sharply staccato on the pavement. Head still held so high, so proud.

Boyd doesn't move. He's too busy struggling with her words to attempt to follow. Pieces of a jigsaw he never actually knew existed seem to be falling neatly into place. Things that defied understanding in the past suddenly seem to be staring him accusingly in the face. As comprehension starts to flood through him, so does something else – something icy and unpleasant. Fear.

He's afraid. He's afraid and he hates it.

It's not Grace he fears; Boyd realises that almost immediately. He doesn't fear Grace – he fears himself.

She's still walking away from him. So tiny, so defiant.

She's in love with him. The shock of the revelation is beginning to settle. He's not sure it's likely to stop amazing him at any point in the near future, but the initial paralysis seems to be wearing off, allowing at least some room for coherent thought. She's in love with him. Damn.

Damn bloody fuck.

Maybe he really _is_ stupid, because he sure as hell didn't see that one coming…

Boyd starts into motion again, instinct once more driving him into swift pursuit. It doesn't take him long to draw level with her once again and as he does so, he says, "I'm sorry."

She gives him a look that's both bewildered and immeasurably wise. "Why? What are you sorry for?"

Boyd shrugs, another instinctive thing. "I'd never intentionally hurt you, Grace. You know that, don't you?"

"Then let me walk away," she says simply.

"I can't," he tells her. "Don't ask me to do that, because I can't."

Grace stops walking again. She says, "I know you're fond of me, Peter, but it's not enough."

The fear's back. A cold, unpleasant thing that churns inside him. He understands it for what it is. Not fear of her or her feelings, but fear of himself and what he does – or _doesn't_ – feel. He's in radically new territory, and he's floundering. Stubborn as ever, Boyd says curtly, "When did you become an expert on how I feel?"

"I don't need to be," Grace says simply. "When I look at you… Well, let's just say that I know that when you look at me you don't feel what _I_ feel when I look at you."

"Christ, woman, give me a chance – I'm playing catch-up here."

Her response is oddly philosophical. "Which should tell you everything you need to know. It's not a crime, you know – not feeling the same way about me as I do about you. It's just one of those things. That's what real life's like."

Boyd shoots her a glare. "Will you stop telling me how I feel? Even _I_ don't know how I feel at the moment, so how the hell you think you do…"

Her reply is patient. "I'm a psychologist, Boyd."

"A psychologist, not a bloody mind-reader, Grace. Look, all I know is that I want you in my life."

"I'm flattered – really, I am. But I'm not prepared to put myself through this anymore. Not now that there's nothing to provide any… insulation."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Boyd demands angrily.

Grace sighs. "Now you're just being obtuse on purpose."

"Don't try to use the CCU as an excuse for never having the guts to tell me how you felt."

Her response is sharp. "Oh, don't be so childish. You're doing it again – having a tantrum because you're not getting your own way."

Boyd scowls at her again. His thoughts are still racing, and they're getting more and more tangled in the contradictory emotions that are pulling him in every direction at once. He does not know how he feels. That's the brutal truth. He knows she's important to him, knows he'll fight tenaciously to keep her from walking away permanently, but the most obvious, fundamental question is the one he can't find a simple answer to. Grace shakes her head slowly, starts to move. He blocks her way, says, "Wait."

"Why?"

Boyd makes an impatient gesture. "Because my head's fucking spinning, and I need a moment to think."

"You don't need to think," Grace says, her tone oddly serene. "All you need to do is feel. Do you love me?"

He goes with instinct. It's always served him well enough before. "Yes."

Strangely, she looks neither surprised nor sceptical. "And are you _in _love with me?"

A whole lifetime of experience with some exceedingly volatile women tells Boyd to lie. To tell her what she wants to hear and deal with the consequences later. Instinct makes him tell the truth. "I don't know. It's never crossed my mind to think about it."

The tiny, flickering smile is back. A delicate thing, easily crushed. "Diplomacy was never one of your strong points, was it, Boyd?"

"Do you want me to lie?" Boyd asks bluntly. "Because if that will stop you walking away from me, I will. I'll lie my bloody head off. Forever, if necessary."

"You know that's not what I want. What I'd ever want."

Something makes him change tactics. As gently as he can, he says, "You're pushing me into a corner, Grace. Is that what you want?"

"Of course not."

"But that's exactly what you're doing. You're forcing my hand."

"Only you would see it like that, Boyd."

"How else would you describe it?"

"I'm doing what's best for both of us," Grace says simply.

"You're doing what's best for both of us in _your_ opinion. You're giving me no choices, no chances."

"Because I'm not a naïve schoolgirl with a silly crush on her best friend," she tells him tartly. "I know you, Boyd, and I know you're not in love with me."

"And it's that simple, is it?" Boyd demands.

"Of course it is."

All he can see is a very large impasse. Yet, there are words beginning to form clearly in his head. Cautiously, he explores them for a moment. He doesn't think he's got much to lose, so he says, "Falling in love is easy, Grace. People fall in and out of love all the time. Loving someone – not being _in_ love with them – is what keeps people together."

"That's incredibly profound, Boyd," she says, her bitter sarcasm far too evident.

He ignores the scorn. "I was in love with my wife. Stupidly in love with her. But in the end it wasn't anywhere near enough to save our marriage."

"I can see where this is going, and the answer's no."

"Now who's being childish?"

"Don't you think I've sacrificed enough of my dignity? Why would I want to be with a man who doesn't love me?"

"I _do_ love you."

"Who isn't _in_ love with me, then."

"Oh, for God's sake…" Boyd snaps. He struggles to keep his rising temper in check, turns to look at the river again. Something about how constant it is soothes him. It doesn't matter what happens in the big vibrant city, the river will always be there, forever snaking its way towards the sea. Its character may change with time and with the seasons, but it's always there; always has been there, probably always will be there. He hears her footsteps as she starts to move away again, and he wheels round, catching hold of her wrist for a second time. Grace gives a tiny yelp of surprise, and a young man just passing them falters, his expression wary.

The inquiry is hesitant but simultaneously very determined. "Is everything all right…?"

"Fine," Boyd growls at him, not loosening his grip.

The young man – tall and slim, wearing a cheap business suit – does not look convinced. He looks at Grace. "Are you okay? Is there a problem here?"

"No," she says in a tone cut with resignation. "There's no problem. Thank you."

The stranger looks uneasy. "Are you sure…?"

"Just fuck off, will you?" Boyd tells him. "Go and play at being a Good Samaritan somewhere else."

"Boyd," Grace says curtly.

"I'm calling the police," the young man says, but the indecision in his voice is very clear.

Grace pulls her wrist free with a sharp, unexpected twist. She says, "Really, it's fine. Just a… difference of opinion."

"If you're sure…"

"Go on, piss off," Boyd tells him. "Stay out of things that don't concern you."

Grace's would-be rescuer backs up a step or two, but he's evidently not as intimidated as he first seemed, because he says, "You've got some mouth on you, old man. She could do a hell of a lot better."

"Yeah, she could – now fuck off."

The man walks away muttering and shaking his head. Grace says, "Was that really necessary?"

"Don't start," Boyd warns her. "I mean it, Grace. Don't start."

She looks as if she's about to snap back at him, but eventually she just says quietly, "This is pointless. We're going round in circles and we're just going to end up hurting each other. Again."

"I'm not letting you walk away. Not like this."

"Boyd…"

The weariness is back in her posture, her expression. She's not the only one who's tired, Boyd realises. It's in his nature to fight and keep fighting, but there's truth in what Grace says; they're already metaphorically battered and bruised, already hurting. Nothing's going to get any easier. He realises he's not interested in a pyrrhic victory, and he deliberate lets his shoulders drop a fraction, lets the tension and aggression slowly bleed out of his stance. The few feet separating them might as well be a continental divide.

Quietly, he says, "We may not exactly be love's young dream, Grace, but I care about you. I care about you a lot more than you seem to think."

"You care about Spencer, too, but that doesn't mean you want to spend the rest of your life with him."

"Spencer's never told me he's in love with me. Damned good thing, too – that's one shock I could definitely live without."

"Shock?"

"Figure of speech, Grace."

The regard each other warily for several long moments. When she says nothing in reply, Boyd tentatively takes a step towards her, and then another. Grace watches him, her expression closed, but her eyes clearly displaying both apprehension and confusion. Boyd is close enough now that he has to look down at her, and not for the first time in all the long years, the size disparity between them tugs at all his protective instincts. She may be feisty, she may have an awe-inspiring core of strength and courage, but next to him she's so slight and fragile, and though Boyd would never make the mistake of equating her small stature to vulnerability, something primitive in him still responds to it in a very predictable way.

Another piece of that newly-discovered jigsaw clicks into place. Loudly.

He says, "I need to know something."

Grace frowns, evidently perplexed. "What?"

He takes the final step, figuratively and literally. "This."

It momentarily amuses him, the way Grace freezes the instant his lips touch hers, but there are very quickly far more interesting things to think about… the softness of her, the smell of her, the way she quite suddenly relaxes and her mouth becomes warm and pliant under his. There's more. There's the way his pulse seems to have speeded up, the way every part of him in contact with her suddenly seems to burn; there's the delicate hand that's suddenly on his cheek, the cool fingertips that are tracing softly down his skin and into the dense bristle of his beard.

As experiments go, it's a great success.

Boyd draws back carefully, keeping his gaze locked on her. Her eyes flicker open, and he sees the quickly-masked flash of anguish in them. It tears into him, that look, instantly fills him with a savage need to reassure her. He knows there's an honest trace of huskiness in his voice as he says, "I swear I'll never lie to you."

He sees her swallow hard. Her response is almost a whisper. "Please don't do this… not unless you mean it."

"I mean it," he says, and he kisses her again, just as gently but with considerably more confidence, and this time he puts his arms round her, draws her even closer against him. Breaking the kiss, he says in her ear, "Give me a chance, Grace. Just one chance."

She's holding onto him far more tightly than he would ever have imagined possible. Her voice is still barely more than a whisper. "To learn to love me?"

He doesn't move an inch. "I don't need to learn to do that. I've already told you how much I care about you."

"But is that enough…?" Grace asks, sounding oddly uncertain.

Lowering his head to rest his chin on her shoulder, Boyd stares at the river. He says, "It's a damned good place to start, Grace…"

_- the end -_


End file.
